A Crown of Thorns: The Rejection and Rise of David
HaMelech

Shavuot, Malchut Beit David, and the Voice of the Lonely Soul 

Every year on Shavuot, as we crown the Torah anew at Har
Sinai, another quiet coronation takes place—the birth and passing of David
HaMelech. We read Megillat Ruth not just for its tale of kindness and
conversion, but because it concludes with David’s genealogy, tracing the roots
of Israel’s true kingship back to a Moabite outsider. 

Unlike ancient monarchies that claimed divine ancestry, the
Jewish king is chosen for righteousness. David's origins are deeply human, even
painfully so. His great-grandmother Ruth was a convert from Moav, a nation
seemingly barred from entering Kahal Hashem. The Torah states: 'Lo yavo
Ammoni uMoavi b’kahal Hashem'—yet the Oral Torah clarifies this
prohibition applied only to males, due to Moav's lack of hospitality, a trait
not expected of women at the time. Boaz, acting as posek and judge, ruled
publicly that Ruth was permitted. Yet not everyone accepted that psak, and
controversy lingered for generations. 

The Midrash tells us Boaz died the night after marrying
Ruth. Some saw this as Divine disapproval. Others whispered that perhaps Boaz’s
psak was flawed. Even his grandson Yishai—David’s father—began to doubt. He
separated from his wife Nitzevet bat Adael, fearing his lineage was
halachically compromised. In a complex halachic arrangement, he attempted to
father a child through a maidservant, only for Nitzevet to secretly take her
place. From that union, David was born—in silence, in secrecy. 

David was not accepted as a full son. Treated as a safek
mamzer, he was relegated to the margins, raised in shame. As he writes in
Tehillim, “I was a stranger to my brothers, an alien to my mother’s sons.”
(Tehillim 69:9) 

Yet in those lonely fields, David connected to Hashem with
an open heart. His rejection became resilience. His pain became poetry. Sefer
Tehillim is the soul-song of every Jew in exile—our yearning, our heartbreak,
our hope. 

When Shmuel HaNavi was sent to anoint the next king, he came
to Beit Lechem and met Yishai’s sons. All seven were presented. None were
chosen. Shmuel asked, “Ha’tammu ha’nearim?”—not 'Are these all your
sons?' but 'Are the lads finished?'—a question that left space
for the one not counted. Yishai replied, “There remains the youngest—he’s
tending sheep.” When David arrived, Hashem declared: “Kum meshacheihu—Arise and
anoint him, for this is the one.” 

Even then, David’s path was not smooth. When he brought food
to his brothers on the battlefield, Eliav rebuked him harshly. David responded,
“What have I done now? It was just a question.” (Shmuel I 17:29) This phrase
captures David’s life—a constant struggle to justify his presence. 

David’s victory over Golyat didn’t erase the doubts. Even
Shaul asked, “Whose son is this youth?” though he had already met David. The
Midrash explains: Shaul knew who David was, but now, sensing his greatness, he
wondered—could this boy be royal? Could he be Mashiach? 

David’s spirit brought peace to Shaul, but also triggered
his downfall. The pasuk says, “Ruach Hashem departed from Shaul, and a
distressing spirit tormented him.” David’s music soothed him—but perhaps it was
more than music. It was the ruach tova of a soul that had suffered and
sanctified that suffering. 

The bond between David and Yonatan is one of the most
powerful in Tanach. Yonatan, heir to the throne, saw in David the soul Hashem
had chosen. He stripped his royal garments and gave them to David—not out of
defeat, but submission to truth. The Zohar sees their bond as representing the
sefirot of tiferet and yesod—a sacred fusion in preparation for eternal
kingship. 

David hid in caves, fled for his life, and twice spared
Shaul, never raising a hand against him. When Shaul and Yonatan died, David
wept: “Eich naflu giborim—How the mighty have fallen.” 

Finally, David was crowned—first in Chevron, then over all
Israel. The shepherd. The servant. The suspected mamzer. Now Melech Yisrael. 

So why tell this story on Shavuot? 

Because Shavuot is not just Zman Matan Torateinu. It is Zman
Matan Malchuteinu. The giving of Torah is not only about revelation—it’s about
transformation. David wasn’t chosen despite his suffering, but through it.
Torah doesn’t belong only to the perfect—it belongs to those who cling to
Hashem through pain. 

The redemptive arc of David’s life mirrors the path of
Mashiach, who emerges through spiritual concealment. From Lot’s daughters and
Yehuda and Tamar, to Ruth and Boaz, and finally Yishai and Nitzevet—each step
is cloaked in scandal, yet woven with divine purpose. Kabbalah teaches that the
soul of Mashiach must be hidden, lest the Satan destroy it. This is hester
panim—Divine concealment as protection. 

The soul of Mashiach descends into spiritual obscurity to
redeem it from within. He is not a king of polished pedigree, but one who
elevates the fallen. As Rav Kook wrote, “Out of the crooked timber of humanity,
Mashiach will carve the pillars of redemption.” 

And now us. We’ve waited not 28 years—but 2,000. We, too,
have been exiled, accused, misunderstood. But we didn’t stop singing. Like
David, we turned exile into encounter. 

So this Shavuot, when we crown the Torah anew, let us also
crown the David within us—the one who clings to Hashem through doubt, who sings
through suffering, who waits not in despair, but in emunah. 

May we be worthy to hear, soon and in our days:
Kum meshacheihu—Arise and anoint him.

Because the world is ready.

And because we are still singing. 

   

 As the
Rabbis have told us that Shimon Chai’s Neshama is already at the highest levels
of Shamayim it was suggested than anything should be given LeIluy Nishmat – his
four great grandfathers, my dad Yosef ben Esther, my father in Law Yosef
Mordechai ben Rachel, Rabbanit Ilana Alouf’s dad, Nissim ben Leah and Rabbi
Alouf’s father Yehuda gamil ben chatun – ve’et ben, ben, ben beno and their
great grandson Shimon Chai Ben Moriah Bracha Devora